


Starve Your Distractions, Feed Your Focus

by aibidil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Feminism, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Joggers, M/M, Objectification, Running, Sweatpants, The Gaze, exercise, fitness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 00:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil
Summary: During their eighth year at Hogwarts, Harry and Draco embark on a fitness regimen to get ready for Auror training. What they’re not ready for is the blowback caused by a pair of grey joggers.





	Starve Your Distractions, Feed Your Focus

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the [Cocks and Joggers Mini Fest](https://cocksandjoggers.tumblr.com), which has already given me so much joy. Thanks to the Drarry discord for the fest, and to **shiftylinguini** and **carpemermaid** for betaing and and **gracie137** for checking my British exercise vocab.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://aibidil.tumblr.com).

On Monday at six o'clock in the bloody morning, Harry Potter woke to a shrieking wand alarm. 

"Turn it off," he mumbled, reaching to slap Draco. "Draco, turn off the fucking alarm."

"Mmmnnngpph," Draco grumbled, waving away Harry's hand and trying to pull Harry closer to him. 

Harry was tempted to press his body into Draco's sleepy warmth for a moment longer—just for a minute, really—but then the wand alarm changed tactics and began wailing the _weeeeoooooweeeeoooo_ of a siren.

"We've got to go to the gym," Harry groaned. "Neville will kill us."

The day after Voldemort fell, Kingsley Shacklebolt was made interim Minister for Magic—and he, in turn, immediately offered Harry Potter and the other war heroes reserved spots in Auror training. After, of course, they finished their N.E.W.T.s and their eighth year. 

Draco Malfoy, however, was not a war hero. But he _was_ cleared by the Wizengamot, back for an eighth year at Hogwarts, and scoring top of the class in the half of the courses that Hermione wasn't topping. He had also scored, and topped, Harry Potter. 

Which had, surprisingly to them, not been much of a surprise to anyone else. 

Harry and Neville, unlike Ron and Hermione, had decided to accept the reserved spot in Auror training. Draco had decided that he would get a spot in Auror training. 

Because of this, early in the year, Neville had decided that they must get fit.

Harry had raised both eyebrows with a huge bemused grin. Draco had raised one eyebrow with an amused sneer. And then they’d agreed, because really, Neville was right. The first year of Auror training had the reputation of being hugely physically demanding. Impossible, really. In September, Harry’d looked like he’d been half-starved in a forest for a year. Draco’d looked much like the skeleton that he assumed he’d be by this time. And Neville looked like the chubby eleven-year-old with a toad. So Neville made fitness plans.

Neville didn’t do things by halves—he did things with commitment and enthusiasm. Commitment and enthusiasm that Harry and Draco could not quite match.

Draco managed to grab his wand and stop the horrible alarm, which had just started a chorus of Nickelback’s “Breathe.”

“Can we just stay in bed today?” Draco pressed his face into the pillow. “Neville can work out without us.”

Harry sat up. “You heard him last night going on and on about ‘Never Miss a Monday.’ And you know that look he gets on his face when people disappoint him. I can’t deal with that.”

“Alright, fine,” Draco said with poor humour, sitting up and blinking against the light. 

“Kreacher!” Harry called. 

The House-elf _cracked_ into the room. “Yes?” the elf grumped. Kreacher had stayed on at Hogwarts after the end of the war, and was happy—or, well, _willing_ —to serve Harry in addition to his work in the kitchens.

“Can you bring us two of those protein shakes?” Harry asked.

“Fine,” and Kreacher bowed and was gone with another _crack._

Draco stood and began searching around Harry’s room in the eighth year dorm for his Quidditch kit. Eighth year students were not allowed to play on the house teams, but Harry and Draco still flew fairly often. And they still wore their kits when they went down to the gym by the Quidditch locker rooms. Draco found Harry’s bottoms and threw them across the room, landing them on Harry’s head. Then he found his green ones and pulled them on.

Kreacher returned holding two chocolate banana protein shakes. “Six hundred calories each,” he said, “as requested by Master Longbottom.”

Harry thanked Kreacher and passed Draco his shake. He took a sip of his. “I used to enjoy eating,” Harry observed. “Now Neville has made it seem like a chore.”

Draco snorted and grabbed his top, pulling it over his head, brushing his blond hair away from his face. Harry sipped his shake, shirtless, one leg in his Quidditch bottoms.

Draco walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Harry’s chest. “Are you sure we can’t go back to bed? I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Harry smiled, craning his neck around to smirk at Draco. “Later. I know you don’t want to deal with Neville’s crestfallen Crup face.”

Draco nipped Harry’s neck. “Ugh. You’re right. Put your clothes on.”

* * *

At 6:34am, Harry and Draco walked into the gym. The gym was primarily used by the Quidditch teams, but Harry had almost never used it before this year. Seekers needed to be svelte, and he’d been able to get the cardio conditioning he needed in the air.

But now, Neville had bulking plans.

When they walked through the door, Neville was bent over some equipment. He stood, shaking his sandy hair out of his eyes. “Have a nice lie in?”

Harry and Draco stopped abruptly inside the door.

Neville was shirtless.

This was not the first time that had happened. The first time, Harry had been so distracted by Neville’s back muscles that he’d dropped a 24kg dumbbell from a chest press onto his head, and Draco’d had to _Episkey_ him. Draco would’ve been impossible to live with after that, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Draco had gone flying off the back of a magi-ergometer when Neville walked by mopping his brow with a towel.

Harry and Draco did not speak of that day.

But today, Neville was wearing joggers.

In the past, Neville had been wearing an old Quidditch kit that had belonged to Cormac McLaggen. The bottoms were a bit short, and it was getting a bit threadbare—Nev hadn’t cared, grabbing it off the pile of extra gear. But Neville wasn’t a Quidditch player, and maybe he’d gotten tired of his ankles showing. 

In any case, today Neville was wearing joggers. 

When neither Harry nor Draco responded, Neville called cheerfully, “Come on, it’s HIIT day!”

In his current state, Harry couldn’t remember what HIIT was, but he was certain it was nothing good.

And here’s the thing about Quidditch bottoms. Genitalia needs to be properly controlled when riding a broom. One must be locked and loaded. This was true even for the girls, Harry was pretty sure, though he wasn’t clear on the logistics. In any case, Quidditch bottoms had a lot of Charmwork built into the crotch. Well, built into the whole garment, really. There were Charms to prevent the material from getting lodged in your arse cheeks, there were Charms to prevent splitting seams. But most important from Harry’s perspective, and from the perspective of all penis-bearing Quidditch players, were the Charms to properly contain and protect one’s tallywacker. It was kind of like a Muggle jock strap, only much, much better. There were Cushioning Charms and some sort of Impact-Resistance Charms. And Harry was fairly certain there was magical space involved, an Undetectable Extension— _something_. All he knew was that one could have a hard-on the size of a boa constrictor, and no one would ever know. 

Neville was wearing _joggers._

The joggers did not avail themselves of an Undetectable Extension.

Harry and Draco turned towards each other slowly, noting the looks on each other’s faces.

“Say, Longbottom,” Draco managed valiantly. “What happened to your Quidditch kit?”

“Oh,” Neville said, “I got tired of the too-short trousers and the ripping at the knees every time I cast _Reparo_ , so I borrowed these from Dean. He said they were a gift from Seamus.”

“I’ll bet they were,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“Alright,” Neville said, clapping his hands, “according to my plans, we’re to start with a two minute run around the track.”

“Oh, dear god,” Harry breathed.

Neville waved his wand and a countdown appeared, shimmering in the air. “And, go!”

Neville began to run around the small track that circled the perimeter of the gym, and Harry and Draco fell in behind him.

“Does he,” Draco began, then stopped, considering his words. “Does he realise he looks like that?”

“I don’t think he knows how fucking hench he is,” Harry hissed. “He is so used to being the bumbling and chubby kid that he has forgotten to, er, reassess.”

“It’s like trying to actually bathe in a bathhouse,” Draco said. “I don’t know where to put my eyes.”

On the straight parts of the track, Harry and Draco tried not to look at Neville’s arse. Or his shirtless back. Or the dimples over his—

And when Neville took the curve and angled himself perpendicularly to them, they tried not to look at his cock, which was really doing a bang-up job of drawing attention to itself as Neville, in joggers, jogged.

“Think of Filch,” Harry whispered, wishing that he was out of breath so at least he could be annoyed at the exercise rather than preoccupied with a cock in a pair of joggers, but Neville’s exercise regimen had them all quite fit. 

“Not working. Now I’m thinking of Filch in joggers.” Draco shuddered.

The countdown ended, and Neville stopped. “So I’m going to set the chime to ding thirty-second intervals with fifteen-second rests in between. We’re going to cycle through burpees, tricep dips with extended legs, star jumps, and finally, hip thrusts.”

“Salazar, no,” Draco whispered.

The chime dinged and Neville immediately jumped down, his legs behind him, and dipped in a pushup, then jumped forwards and up before repeating the exercise. “Come on, you lazy sods!” he said with a laughing smile.

Harry and Draco, in a stroke of brilliance, faced the opposite wall and joined in for the rest of the burpees. Draco complained twice about his ankle proprioception, and Harry complained once that he was dying. But then the chime sounded, and they stood for a quick break.

“Get to the bench for tricep dips!” Neville reminded them. 

There were three benches that sort of made a circle—this time Harry and Draco wouldn’t be able to turn away. Merlin and Morgana. They each got in position in front of a bench, hands on the edge, and when the chime sounded, they extended their legs forwards and lowered their bodies down until their arses nearly touched the floor, and then back up. 

It was the back up that was the problem, as Neville’s mid-section and all that was attached to it rose into the air in those blasted grey joggers.

“Draco,” Neville said, “you shouldn’t look up at the ceiling like that, you’re going to get a crick in your neck.”

Draco lowered his head, staring forwards, eyes closed. 

“And don’t close your eyes, that’s bad for your balance.”

Draco opened his eyes and held Harry’s gaze. That was a safe solution, Harry figured. The problem was that they both kept looking away from each other’s eyes. And wasn’t that funny, after years of trying and failing _not_ to look at each other.

The chime sounded.

“Star jumps!” Neville called. They stood up.

Harry shot Draco an apprehensive look and mouthed, _“Look at me!”_

Draco nodded but also raised an eyebrow in a this-is-out-of-my-hands-Potter sort of face.

Harry and Draco stood a couple of feet apart, facing each other. The chime sounded, and they began star jumps.

“Do not,” Harry panted, “look away from my eyes.”

“It’s like the siren song, Harry,” Draco panted with a smile, eyes locked together. “We’re going to jump into the rocky water the second we’re not tied to the mast.”

“Stay tied,” Harry breathed heavily, “to the bloody mast!”

Draco had the audacity to laugh, like Harry was funny—like _that_ was the problem here.

“I don’t want to be,” Harry puffed, “a creepy objectifier.”

“Oh come on,” Draco huffed. “It’s not like we,” breath, “can help it!”

“I have gaze guilt!” Harry insisted, panting. “I’m supposed,” breath, “to be a feminist!”

“There are no women here,” Draco puffed, his hands above his head. A few jumps passed. “Or ever in your gaze,” breath, “for that matter.”

“You know,” Harry huffed, “what I mean!” 

The chime sounded, and Harry and Draco stopped jumping and finally broke each other’s gaze. They immediately realised that was a mistake when they saw that Neville had finished jumping only to begin some sort of all-over muscle shake-out maneuver.

Harry could not stop staring.

The fact of the matter was, that if Neville’s bottoms had utilised magical space, the space involved would need to be spacious. The Undetectable Extension would need to be extensive.

_“Objectifier,”_ Draco hissed, with joyful venom. 

Harry turned towards him with incredulous eyes.

_“Pervert,”_ Draco continued. _“Peeping Tom.”_

Harry stared at him with a blank face. “Pot, cauldron.” He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. _“Don’t look at the ceiling, Draco,”_ he mocked.

Draco raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Let’s just get through this, okay?”

The chime sounded.

It was time for the hip thrusts.

They each lay down on their back, planting their feet firmly on the floor. Harry reached his right arm out and wiggled his fingers. Draco reached out to grasp Harry’s hand. Their shoulders stayed on the ground as their hips rose into the air.

Harry’s head, as if inexorably drawn by a Summoning Charm, fell to the side, where he watched as Neville’s joggers-clad glutes pushed his joggers-clad cock high, and then higher into the air.

Harry swallowed, and turned back to Draco with a red face.

Draco squeezed his hand. “Hump thrusts should be illegal,” Draco whispered, “outside the confines of the marital bed.”

Harry laughed so hard he had to stop thrusting.

Just then, a small paper jub-jub bird flew into the room, landing on Neville’s joggers.

Neville lowered his arse, sitting to unfold the jub-jub bird. “Oh, bugger,” Neville said, reading the missive. “There’s an urgent Screechsnap blight.” He stood. “I have to go, I’m so sorry. You’ll have to finish without me. You’re supposed to cycle through these intervals another 8–12 times. Then you should do 20 minutes of cardio.”

Harry and Draco stared at him—his face, definitely his face and not his chest, or his abs, or the blasted, buggering joggers—with red, flushed faces.

“Are you two alright?” Neville asked, concerned. “You’re not usually so knackered from so little exertion.”

Harry needed some sort of excuse for his exhaustion and red face. “Well we were, er, you know, exerting ourselves before we got here.”

Neville smiled knowingly. “Oh! Ha!”

“You don’t usually join us for that part,” Harry babbled.

Neville’s eye widened just a hair, and then he said, “Screechsnap blight. See you later!” And sauntered out of the room in his joggers, carefree, as if his cock wasn’t on display for all to see.

Draco hit Harry on the arm. “Did you just ask Longbottom for a threesome?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Harry protested. “Did I?”

“Merlin, I’m not sure,” Draco said, falling onto his back.

Harry leaned over Draco, still red in the face from exertion, and pressed a kiss to his lips. He pulled away. “I am so turned on. I’m a terrible feminist.”

Draco laughed, bright and open. “It’s okay—I’m turned on, too.” He pulled Harry’s weight onto his body and threaded his fingers into Harry’s hair, pulling him in for another kiss.

Harry rocked his body into Draco’s, and actually that was a bit odd with all the Charms on the Quidditch bottoms, because he couldn’t feel _anything._ “Are you hard?” Harry asked.

“Of course, but, bloody Cushioning Charms!” Draco growled, reaching down to unhook their fastenings.

Draco looked up at Harry’s face and turned serious for a moment. “We have to conspire to get rid of those joggers. He cannot wear them again.”

Harry laughed. “I agree. We’re going to have to bribe Dean to keep them, or Vanish them, or something—anything.” He pushed his Quidditch bottoms down his thighs and kicked them off. “That’s better,” Harry said, relishing the nudity and its lack of Cushioning and Impact-Resistance. 

After a pleasant minute, Harry suddenly stopped and looked into Draco’s grey eyes. “But _we’re_ going to get some joggers, right?”

Draco raised a supercilious eyebrow, as if Harry was the daftest person on earth. 

“Obviously.”

**Author's Note:**

> I credit/blame [Matthew Lewis](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/43/b2/46/43b246688f5750b1c18084316682c88c.jpg) (and his joggers) for this fic. Like Harry, I salute you as a wonderful person with full human subjectivity, and definitely not for other, er, reasons.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://aibidil.tumblr.com).


End file.
